


That Damned Cat

by Magnolia822



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cats, Domestic Fluff, Ficlet, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 08:11:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19988917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia822/pseuds/Magnolia822
Summary: In which they inherit a cat and Crowley pretends not to like it but does and Aziraphale pretends to like it but doesn’t.





	That Damned Cat

The damned cat isn’t much to look at. It’s black and scraggly with mangy fur and an old, healed wound on its nose, evidence of street battles long past. When it first shows up at the cottage door, scratching and meowing loudly for food, Crowley sets down a plate of leftover stew out of sheer appreciation for the creature’s audacity. It tucks in like nobody’s business, licking the plate clean and staring up at Crowley with baleful eyes. 

“Mrrrow,” it says.

Crowley crosses his arms and stares down at it. “Don’t press your luck.”

The cat skulks away soon after, and Crowley forgets about it completely until the following week. They are sitting in the study early in the morning, Aziraphale with his tea and Crowley with a cup of black coffee gone cold.

“What in the world?” Aziraphale takes his glasses off and cocks his head. “Do you hear that, my dear?”

Crowley, who has been lounging on the sofa with his legs dangling over the side, waiting for Aziraphale to finish with the bloody paper so they can do something else (preferably in bed), pushes himself up. There it is, the plaintive meow and scratch.

“That’s the damned cat,” he says.

“The what?” Aziraphale frowns.

“Came round last week for a spot of supper while you were out.” 

“I see,” says Aziraphale, arching an eyebrow over the fold of his paper.

Crowley isn’t quite sure why he does, but he rises and saunters into the kitchen to see what they’ve got. A bit of cold ham and a slice of cheese are all he can find; he’ll have to go to the shop in a tick. Aziraphale gets grumpy when they’re out of clotted cream.

“Crowley, you can’t give cats things like that. That’s human food.” Aziraphale follows him to the front door, frowning at the plate.

“It’s a street cat, angel. It’s eaten worse than this.”

The cat looks dubiously from one of them to the other. When it sees what Crowley’s holding, it winds itself between his legs and stares up at him with large yellow eyes. “Mrrrow.”

“Alright, alright, enough of that. Watch the trousers.” Crowley dances away and sets down the plate. With one more fond glance, the cat abandons him and starts attacking the cold ham with the violence of a hungry lion. Crowley feels a strange burst of pride, but manages to hold back his threatening smile. It won’t do for the cat to get any ideas.

“Oh, isn’t he lovely,” says Aziraphale, in the tone of voice with which one might say mind the puddle of sick. “I think it’s a he, at least. He appears to have all his, ahem, parts.”

Crowley puts his arm around Aziraphale’s waist, amused that outside of the bedroom Aziraphale remains devotedly prudish. “He’s got his balls, all right. What a horrible beast.”

“I suppose it’s our responsibility to care for him,” says Aziraphale with a heavy sigh. “God’s creatures and all of that.”

“You sound like you don’t like him very much.”

“He’s … quite nice.” Aziraphale’s nose wrinkles. He’s always been a terrible liar. Crowley strokes his side and is gratified when Aziraphale presses closer. Even after ten years, he’s never gotten over the novelty of being able to touch Aziraphale in this way. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of it. Come to think of it, the way Aziraphale is leaning into him, almost vibrating with pleasure, reminds Crowley of the demanding cat, but he knows better than to say such things out loud.

“He’s a nuisance.”

“You seem rather fond of him, my dear,” says Aziraphale, nuzzling into Crowley’s neck and pressing a kiss to the snake at his temple.

“I am not,” Crowley lies.

The damned cat starts showing up at the cottage with alarming frequency, first every other day, then daily, until finally Crowley lets him inside. When Aziraphale comes in from his morning walk, Crowley tries to shoo the beast out of his lap, where the cat has been purring for the last hour.

Aziraphale gives him a wan smile. “How lovely. He’s come to stay, then?”

Crowley answers with a silent shrug. “I suppose.”

“You adore that cat, my dear. What will you call him?”

“I don’t adore him, and his name is damned cat.”

“I see,” says Aziraphale, settling into his favorite chair. The cat immediately jumps into his lap and settles down, kneading claws into his leg. Aziraphale gives its head a tentative pat.

“Animals are just so … wonderful to have around. Good for your health, I’ve heard.” He looks like it’s actually paining him to say it, and Crowley chuckles to himself. He wonders which of them will be the first to admit the truth.


End file.
